She shrugs and reaches for the jug of water that no one ever seems to change. It tastes of plastic, but she downs it and pours herself another cup. “I think I might have figured out who Denver Brady is,” she says. “It’s more of a theory, really. We just need some physical evidence. I’m fairly confident Denver didn’t kill Charlotte, and that the person who did is a copycat.”
“OK,” the doctor says. Then he waits, letting the silence stretch so she feels the urge to fill it.
“I got a dog,” she volunteers.
“That’s great,” he smiles. “What’s it called?”
“Toni, I’ve called him.”
“Strange name for a dog?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t know why I’ve called him that. I think my head is so full of Denver… I was calling the dog Little Scruff and then ‘Toni’ just slipped out. When I registered him at the vet, I made it Toni with an ‘i,’ not Tony with a ‘y,’ so…”
The doctor says nothing.
“He’s got a wonky leg,” she adds. “Bad breath. A snaggle tooth. He’s honestly a bit of a wreck. But I love him all the more for it. Sometimes, what is healed mends stronger than something never broken.” No response. She sees him notice the little netball she’s clasping in her hand. “It’s Charlotte’s,” she says, without waiting for him to ask. “A netball. Her friend gave it to me. Asked me to carry it with me until I find the killer.”
“How does carrying a dead child’s token around with you make you feel, Sam?”
She doesn’t respond. She’s not even sure she knows the answer, but the wordpressuredrumbles around her brain. She curls forward in the chair, resting her head in her hands. Closes her eyes. The silence in the room is so loud. She hears Dr. Thomson swallow, the creak of faux leather as he shifts in the cheap chair. She opens her eyes. The doctor is sitting, still and calm, waiting. She sighs.
She’s going to have to tell the doctor something meaningful, or he won’t leave. She can’t tell him about the full-blown panic attack she had in Newcastle. A panic attack triggered by seeing an abused woman who reminded her of her mother. Or that the panic attack had left her unconscious in Taylor’s arms, then vomiting on to Newcastle’s cobbles. She’s also keenly aware that her drinking on the job, even if she’s only done it once in her life, needs to stay between her and Taylor. If that gets out, she can kiss goodbye to her career. The very thought of Dr. Thomson knowingthis about her, on top of every detail he’s already privy to, makes her temples throb. So, she’d better say something else.
“I cope with it,” she says. “But I can’t cope with… I can’t look at the crime scene photos from Charlotte Mathers’ murder. Now I’m joint SIO, I’m meant to look at them. Ineedto look at them. But I can’t.”
“Thanks for telling me, Samantha,” Dr. Thomson says. “You know that avoidance behavior is a classic response to the trauma cascade. Remember the story I told you about the woman who was mugged outside a reggae club and now can’t hear that music without having a panic attack? She avoids the radio, TV, even restaurants for fear of encountering that trigger.”
“There’s no reason why I should avoid the crime-scene photographs of Charlotte’s murder, though. It’s not linked in any way to my own problems.”
“Not directly, no,” Dr. Thomson concedes, “but your original trauma is from childhood, Sam. Finding both your parents dead—your mother when you were nine, your father when you were nineteen. It’s all linked. The reason the encounter with DS Lowry caused your breakdown months ago was because his actions triggered your trauma response. It doesn’t matter how different those events are; it’s still—”
A knock on the glass cuts the doctor short. Taylor gestures for Sam to come out, but she shakes her head, surprised to find that she wants to hear the rest of what Dr. Thomson has to say. Taylor reddens slightly, then tries the door. Locked. Taylor tries mouthing something to her but Sam turns away.
“On a completely different note, Samantha,” Dr. Thomson says, watching Taylor walk away. “You do know that that young man… how do I say it? Looks at you in a certain way that—”
“There’s nothing going on,” she snaps. She gulps down more of the stale water, wincing at the unpleasant tang.
“Are you still tasting flavors that aren’t really there?” the doctorasks. She nods, sneaking a glance at Taylor, who’s gone back to his desk. What could it mean, how he looks at her and how he behaved just now when he saw Dr. Thomson? There’s more than ten years between them and Taylor could choose any woman he wanted.
“Sam, I asked how you’re managing your symptoms? The phantom tastes; the concentration, energy levels and headaches were all troubling—”
“Fine. I take paracetamol. My trainee makes me tea constantly,” she says. “I use mints, too. My energy has been OK, but my concentration and focus… I’m trying to read this book for the case and to be honest it’s grueling. I have to read every sentence twice, and I can only manage a chapter at a time. It’s taking me ages. But I’ve never told you about tasting anything. How could you know?”
“The chocolates. You hold them in your mouth. I’ve seen it in other patients, too. Chewing gum, boiled sweets… Samantha, tasting things that aren’t there, hearing things, even seeing things: these are common symptoms of—”
“I know, Doc.” She sighs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t open with you before.”
“Don’t worry,” he reassures her. “You’re obviously making progress, Samantha, but you really need to stick to your reduced hours and please don’t skip any more sessions. And over the next few weeks, we can build up to looking at those crime scene photos.”
“I haven’t got a few weeks, Doc,” Sam protests. “He’s out there now. A killer. He could murder someone tonight.”
“And you really think that by looking at some photographs you could stop him?” the doctor asks. “You’re taking on too much personal responsibility for…”
… Dr. Thomson keeps talking but his words make Sam’s heart race.You could stop him.She thinks of Past Sam, of the clues she’d gleaned from photographs or the crime scenes themselves.Clues that had seen a suspect identified and locked up within just a day or two.He could murder someone tonight.
Sam bolts to her feet. “I need to look at the crime scene photos straight away!” she blurts. “You’re right—I could stop him. I could save a girl’s life just by—”
“That’s not what I said, Samantha—quite the opposite. You’re twisting—”
